


Where All Your Girls Are Pretty

by austeneer731



Category: Original Work
Genre: American Politics, F/M, Romantic Comedy, Weddings
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-12-05
Updated: 2018-04-22
Packaged: 2019-02-10 20:26:39
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 11,182
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12919623
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/austeneer731/pseuds/austeneer731
Summary: The last thing Nell Vaughan wants is to have her wedding profiled in a premiere lifestyle magazine.





	1. Chapter 1

As dusk crept into the garden, Nell Vaughan wished she could turn the clock back one hour. 

She wasn’t demanding much from the universe: just a sixty-minute leap backwards to the moment when her family first gathered around the patio table. The evening held such promise then. In the warm air they’d nibbled on the fig and goat cheese crackers Nell’s mother had prepared, discussing tomorrow’s plans to hit the beach and catch a movie in East Hampton. All the usual tensions remained at a low background simmer; Nell had hoped the peaceful mood could last. 

Then the conversation shifted to Nell’s wedding, and her mother had proposed this cockamamie idea. 

“True happiness needs to be documented.” Helen Vaughan smiled at her own pronouncement and patted the pearls around her neck. “This is the perfect way to share your good fortune with the world, darling.” 

“Mom, I’m not letting a stranger blog about my wedding preparations.” Nell glanced around the table for an ally, but no one rallied to her side. Her father had his phone balanced on his knee as he scrolled up and down the screen. Bruce, Nell’s brother, his face flushed with wine, was murmuring sweet-nothings to Eithne, the strawberry-blonde he had invited for the weekend without notice to anyone. And as for Nell’s fiancé, the man who should be fighting along with her to keep their engagement private…Dash’s face was etched in granite, his finger tracing the rim of his glass as he stared at the garden hedge. 

Aloofness was her fiancé’s default state these days. Nell rolled her resentment into a ball and stored it away for later. 

“I’m not talking about a pajama-wearing basement blogger,” her mother coaxed. “Have you seen Glenna Kern’s _Better Living_ site? All the content is tasteful and refined, and the upcoming weddings feature is incredibly popular. Thousands of people will follow you as you find the dress, set up the registry, taste the cakes. Brides all over Manhattan would _kill_ to be in the Happy Endings column, and the opportunity is yours, darling. I spoke to Glenna already—we’ve known each other for ages, we’re on two museum boards together—and she would be delighted if you and Dash were the next Happy Endings couple.”

“The site itself is irrelevant.” Nell crossed her arms, not caring if the gesture made her appear petulant. “I don’t want to turn our wedding into a public spectacle. I’m not a Kardashian.” 

She hoped to score points off her mother’s horror of all things Kim-Khloe-Kourtney related. But her brother chose that moment to chime in, his voice slurring slightly. “‘Happy Endings?’ Kind of a dirty name for a column about weddings.”

“Dirty, Bruce? I don’t see how.” 

“For the love of God, please don’t explain it to her,” Nell cut in as Bruce opened his mouth to enlighten their mother. 

“Aw, Nellie, you’re no fun.” Nearly knocking over Nell’s glass, Bruce reached across the table and swatted Dash on the arm. “You gotta tell Nell here to loosen up, man! That’s your job.” 

“Nell knows how to enjoy herself,” Dash said. He drained his glass. 

He had become an expert at crafting digs that slipped past everyone else but reminded Nell of her guilt. _Guilt—_ she was exhausted from carrying around the feeling. If only they were one of those couples who drifted apart for no discernible reason. Nell knew exactly what had gone wrong between her and Dash; she could make a timeline, draw diagrams, circle her own name in red ink.

Everyday she wondered if she should end it. Often she rehearsed her farewell speech, the perfect monologue that would acknowledge her own failings but still reproach him for his. But something held her back from putting the thoughts into action. Reluctance to hurt him a second time, maybe, or fear of altering her life past recognition. So many messy bonds held her and Dash together. It would not be so much a breakup as an amputation. 

“Um.” Eithne half-raised her hand, like a student prepared with an answer but also fearful of drawing the teacher’s notice. “Can I jump in with something here?”

A few rapid blinks from Nell’s mother showed her displeasure. “Yes, Effie?” she said coolly. Nell guessed that she’d gotten the name wrong on purpose. Convinced that no woman could measure up to her son, her mother treated Bruce’s weekend companions with frosty disdain.

“Actually, it’s pronounced _I’ve-knee_ , like ‘I’ve got a knee.’ That’s how people usually remember it.”

_Good for you,_ Nell thought. Sadly, if the past were any precedent, Eithne would be around for the next forty-eight hours and not a moment longer. Her adorable name tutorial would be lost in the annals of Bruce’s dating history. 

“Anyway,” Eithne scooted her chair forward, her brow scrunched with earnestness, “I just wanted to say, Nell, that I _totally_ get wanting to keep your life private. But _Better Living_ is an amazing blog. I get all my recipes from there, and I love the Happy Endings column. It’s like Modern Love in the _New York Times,_ but instead of it just being a one-shot, you actually follow the couple through a series of articles. By the end you feel really connected to the people you’ve read about. The stories are so romantic and inspiring—I can send you links to past columns, if you’d like.” 

Nell wanted to respond that the Happy Endings column about her and Dash wouldn’t be inspiring—it would be an obituary, because it was only ever happening over her dead body. Tamping down the rude impulse, she smiled tightly and said, “Thanks.” 

“See, Nell? You have one potential reader already.” After hearing Eithne’s praise for Happy Endings, Nell’s mother seemed ready to put aside her dislike. Picking up the bottle of rosé, she refilled Eithne’s glass. “Eithne, dear,” she said with a stress on each syllable, “can you remind me of what it is you do?” 

“I work for J Crew. I’m on their social media team.” 

“Instagramming clothes like a boss,” Bruce drawled. He brought Eithne’s hand to his lips and kissed it.

Pain slashed through Nell. When was the last time Dash had taken her hand without her prompting him? When was the last time they had made love without the sex being tainted by anger on his side, remorse on hers?

“I’m sorry, Mom, but Dash and I are not doing the Happy Endings column. After everything that’s happened, we need to focus on ourselves.” Seizing Dash’s hand, she guided it to her stomach and pressed it there. Their gazes met and for once she knew that their thoughts aligned. They were both remembering when her belly had been softly rounded. 

He jerked his hand away. 

Silence fell at the table. Nell’s mother ducked her head as she scraped crumbs from the serving platter with the knife. Denial was her expertise, even when Nell had been in the hospital. Bruce squirmed and squinted down into his glass. At last, flipping over his phone, Nell’s father fixed his gaze on her. 

“You’re going to say yes to the Happy Endings column,” he told her. Ford Vaughan never shouted when giving orders; in his soft, implacable voice he reshaped people’s lives to his liking. “I suggest setting up the first interview for next week.” 

This had never been her mother’s idea at all. 

Nell had a brief vision of herself screaming and upending the patio table. Yet she stayed seated and still, her skin prickling in the warm night air as she returned her father’s gaze. From years of experience, she knew that argument was pointless. As for why her father wanted her face splashed across the front page of a premier lifestyle blog, there could be only one explanation.

“You think this will help you win the election,” she said. 

Her father eased his lanky frame out of his chair. Picking up his glass, he turned it between his fingers as he looked down at her. “Preliminary polling has Jenik fifteen points ahead of me,” he said. “That’s a gap we can close. Our campaign will be all about policy, but it won’t hurt to highlight the contrast between our family lives. Jenik is a two-time divorcé with a drinking problem—”

“Didn’t the mayor go to rehab ten years ago?” Eithne whispered. Her eyes almost swallowed her pale, freckled face. Nell felt a swell of pity for her. When the poor girl accepted Bruce’s invitation for a weekend in the Hamptons, she’d had no idea that she was about to fall headlong into a _House of Cards_ episode. 

“Meanwhile, the Vaughans—” Nell’s father tapped his chest—“have faithfully served Manhattan’s District 5 for three generations. The fact is, however, most New Yorkers can’t name the members of their city council. It is crucial, therefore, that we broaden our appeal before November. We need to show New York that we would be the ideal First Family—dedicated public servants, untainted by scandal. Bruce is not a suitable representative for this family—” he ignored his son’s squawk of protest—“so the responsibility falls to you, Nell. And Dash.” 

“We need you to be Manhattan’s Will and Kate,” her mother said. 

Nell’s mind slid the last piece of the puzzle into place. If her father wanted to use the Happy Endings column to help his campaign, he would have discussed the plan with the members of his staff. Including her fiancé. Twisting in her chair, she looked over at Dash. Once she had treasured the fact that he worked for her father. Dash Wakeland—her childhood sweetheart, her brother’s school friend, her father’s trusted right-hand man. She had loved having him woven into every part of her life. 

What a fool she’d been. 

“Did you know about this, Dash?” she demanded. “Did you already weigh the pros and cons of selling out our engagement?” 

He regarded her without emotion, as though she were merely a strand in a data set. “I mentioned to your father that we should find ways to boost your family’s profile before the mayoral election.” 

“I believe it’s time for dinner.” With a nervous flutter of her hands, Nell’s mother stood. “Eithne, be a dear and grab the serving board. Bruce, you’ll help clear, won’t you? ” 

Within moments, the table was bare and the others had gone inside, leaving Nell and Dash alone on the patio. 

“I should have figured you already knew. You didn’t say a word during the whole conversation. How can you think this is a good idea? If we let a blogger poke around in our lives, they’ll start finding out things that _neither_ of us want exposed.”

The corner of his mouth turned downwards. “ _Better Living_ isn’t going to send Woodward and Bernstein. All we have to do is smile and talk about china patterns.” 

“Maybe I can’t keep smiling.” Nell twisted the ring on her finger, training her eyes on the ground so that he wouldn’t see the tears gathering. “I can’t keep pretending that we’re on the path to happily-ever-after, when things are so broken between us.”

Gentle fingers tilted her chin upwards. Dash gazed at her with more tenderness than he had shown in months. “Don’t say that, Nell,” he scolded softly. “You’re the best liar I know.” 


	2. Chapter 2

Two crazed drivers, a handful of texting pedestrians, and one scary moment when a pedicab swerved into the bike lane. All in all, it hadn’t been Rory’s worst commute. 

He locked his bike, then tugged out his earbuds. Today his favorite _Politico_ podcast had accompanied his ride from Brooklyn to Manhattan. Listening to the analysts debate the president’s tax plan and speculate about the midterm elections, he could pretend that political reporting was still his world. Now he had to return to reality. His helmet tucked under his arm, he shouldered his way into the building that held the _Better Living_ office suites. 

The elevator doors were sliding together as he reached them. Rory slipped through the gap. Inside, he found himself between a gaggle of software engineers—their start-up’s office was a few floors below _Better Living_ —and his coworker Anton. Anton was resting his lean frame against the elevator wall as he flipped through _Time Out;_ at Rory’s entrance, he straightened and closed the magazine. His gaze raked Rory from helmet hair to sneakered toes. 

“This is a new low,” he drawled. “I had resigned myself to your normcore cycle of polo shirts and khakis, but showing up here in mesh shorts? It’s like you think we work at Planet Fitness.” 

“Have you ever been inside a Planet Fitness?” Rory stuffed his earbuds into his bag. He knew Anton had acquired his toned physique from sculpting and kickboxing classes at an exclusive gym in Chelsea. As usual, Anton was dressed as though he were about to party on a yacht. He wore salmon-colored trousers, a light blue oxford shirt, and a cherry-red ascot knotted loosely around his neck. 

“All I’m saying is that clothing matters, especially at our job. _Better Living_ is a lifestyle blog about the fashion capital of the world.” Anton swept out his arm, as though the elevator contained all the wonders of Manhattan. He liked weaving gestures into his _What Rory is Wrong About Today_ speeches. The subject of his last lecture had been Rory’s pronunciation of the word “pecan.” “If we want to show New Yorkers how to live better _,_ I think we should try to dress with a _modicum_ of professionalism.” 

“Would you rather I biked here in my work clothes? Last time I did that, you spent the whole day spraying our cubicle with Febreeze. I’ve got a clean shirt and pants in here,” Rory patted his backpack, “along with extra-strength deodorant, so don’t worry. And I think you’ll enjoy my choice of shirt today. It’s got a whole gingham thing going on.” 

“I can hardly wait,” murmured Anton. 

“By the way—” As Rory stared at the red numbers flashing on the elevator panel, he couldn’t stop bitterness from welling up inside him. “ _You_ want to show New Yorkers how to live better. This isn’t what I want to be doing at all.” 

Anton was silent. The sympathy in his dark eyes made Rory want to pry open the metal doors and ratchet down the elevator shaft to safety. He should have kept his mouth shut. Why remind Anton of the reason why he was stuck at _Better Living,_ not doing what he wanted? No need to draw attention to the sorry tale of Rory Acker, disgraced political journalist. 

The elevator stopped at the eleventh floor and the software engineers shuffled out. Rory had only a few moments to dispel the awkwardness before he and Anton arrived at the _Better Living_ office suites. “Who are you writing about this week?” he asked. He knew Anton relished any chance to talk about his column “Million Dollar Troopers”, which dissected the fashion choices of New York’s It-Girls. 

“Christina Lacey. She works in PR at Macmill International, but mainly she spends her time dating Wall Street bros. As for her fashion sense…well, she tries, which is more than I can say for most of these basic girls.” Anton’s lip quivered, a sign that he was especially proud of his next quip. “She takes her last name as a motto to live by.” 

“That should be your column’s lede.” 

“Perhaps, but I usually like to wait until the middle of the piece to start twisting the knife.” When the elevator opened, they stepped forward and pushed through the glass doors emblazoned with the silver initials _BL._ “And what’s on your docket today?” Anton asked. His tone was wary, as though he expected Rory to descend into self-pity again. 

Rory wrote a daily piece titled “The Five Borough Digest”, which provided an account of all the parties, galas, and other events that might attract well-heeled New Yorkers. He tried to inject enthusiasm into his reply. “Oh, you know, the usual. Today I’m hoping to slip in a mention of the Featured Artist Reception at the Queens Botanical Garden. Glenna will probably veto it, but I’ll just point out to her again that “The _Five_ Borough Digest” doesn’t work as a name if I can only talk about Manhattan and Brooklyn.”

“I don’t think this is the best time to pick a fight with our boss about the outer-boroughs.” Anton cast a glance up and down the hallway. He dropped his voice so low that Rory had to lean in to catch his next words. “I’ve heard rumblings that _Better Living_ is in trouble.” 

“How so?” 

“Apparently advertisers are disappointed with our number of page hits. They’re threatening to pull out. In that case, Glenna will start to cut columns—pieces like the ‘Five Borough Digest’ will be the first on the chopping block.” Anton paused. “No offense.” 

“None taken.” Rory would be sorry to lose his job, but in his ten month stint at _Better Living_ he hadn’t written a single word he cared about. 

Anton seemed to read his thoughts. “This might be an opportunity for you,” he said as they turned the corner and entered the open floor space dotted by cubicles. “You could look for a job in your field. Politics, I mean.”

“Maybe.” Rory lifted his shoulders in a shrug. “I’ll be right there—I’ve got to go change.” 

Anton’s comment lingered in his mind as he headed towards the bathroom. Starting his career over—it was a tantalizing notion. But Rory knew the hard truth. In the eyes of all the websites and publications that he wanted to write for, he had branded himself unhireable. For him, _Better Living_ was as good as it got.

* * * * * *

When Rory arrived at his cubicle, freshly changed and smelling strongly of Old Spice, he found Anton deep in conversation with Liza Crescenti, _Better Living’s_ main photographer. Liza was swiveling from side to side in Rory’s chair, twisting a chestnut curl around her finger as she spoke to Anton in hushed tones. She stood quickly at Rory’s approach. 

“What’s up?” Rory asked. The furrow in Liza brow didn’t alarm him. Like everyone else in the office, he knew Liza suffered from a condition that she had termed “resting anxious face”, or RAF for short. _“People come up to me in the laundromat, asking me if I’m okay,”_ she had once told him over lunch, _“and I’m like, ‘I’m as happy as someone can be while watching a spin cycle.’”_

For once Liza’s words matched her expression. “Carly was in an accident.” 

Rory froze in the middle of taking off his backpack. Carly Reynolds was the dreamy romantic behind “Happy Endings”, the popular column that followed engaged one-percenters from the Barneys bridal registry all the way to the altar. “What happened?” he asked. “Is she okay?” 

“It was a tubing accident,” Liza said. “She went up to the Adirondacks this weekend with Ian, that guy she’s been seeing. Originally they planned just to hike, but they met up with some of Ian’s friends who are really into tubing. They talked Carly into trying one of the landing hills. Long story short, she’s now in the hospital with her leg fractured in three places.” 

Rory winced as he sat down. “Maybe we can all chip in to get her a gift basket.” 

“I’m several steps ahead of you.” Anton pointed to his computer screen. “I just sent out an email asking everyone to pitch in five dollars for chocolate, fuzzy socks, and an Amazon gift card, so that Carly can stock up on her Harlequins. You know, I have to put the blame on Ian here—and I say this as someone who prayed nightly that Carly would get a boyfriend, so that she’d stop calling me in tears over how she would never find her own ‘happy ending.’ What kind of guy lets his very non-athletic girlfriend hurtle down a twenty-foot hill in a tire?” 

“I talked to Ian when he answered Carly’s cell at the hospital. He sounded pretty shaken up.” Liza rubbed her temple. “ _I’m_ shaken up, to be honest. Carly will be out of work for a few weeks—obviously I want her to rest and recover, but this is going to make things complicated. She and I were supposed to begin a new Happy Endings assignment today.”

“Glenna will just ask someone to write the column in her place,” Anton said. “I bet it’ll be Daphne Lee.” 

Liza groaned. “Anyone but that bitch. I had to work with her on her last ‘Hot Boutiques’ column. After spending four hours in a snooty dress shop with Daphne dropping hints about how they probably didn’t stock my size, I have a new idea of hell.” She checked her watch. “Whomever Glenna chooses, she’d better make the pick fast. I’m supposed to meet Nell Vaughan and her fiancé for lunch at noon.” 

Rory’s arm jerked, knocking over the mug of pens and pencils on his desk.

“You okay, Rory?” 

“I’m fine.” Rory grabbed a few fallen highlighters and stuffed them back into his mug. He could hear his pulse thrumming in his ears. “So the latest Happy Endings bride is Nell _Vaughan,_ daughter of Ford Vaughan? The city councilman who’s running against Mayor Jenik?” 

“Yeah, I guess,” Liza said. “Carly’s the one who does the research, I just show up and take pretty pictures…Rory, why do you have crazy eyes all of a sudden?”

“I don’t. My eyes are totally normal.” Rory stood, tugging the wrinkles out of his shirt. “Do you think that Glenna is in her office now?”

“No, no, no.” With each repetition, Anton shook his head and slashed his hand through the air. “I know what you’re thinking, Acker, and it’s a bad idea. ‘Happy Endings’ is not the way to get back into the politics game. You’d need to write about centerpieces and bridal couture and then slather on a layer of romantic sap. You’re not qualified for the job.” 

“Don’t discourage him.” Liza’s face brightened, the crease between her brows disappearing. “I say go for it, Rory. I’d much rather work with you than Daphne.” 

“Thanks.” If he could get face-to-face with Nell Vaughan and ask her even one question about her father’s campaign, maybe he’d begin to feel like himself again. Rory looked across the sea of cubicles, his eyes locking on Glenna’s closed door. He squared his shoulders and stepped forward. “And don’t underestimate my sense of romance, Anton. I’ve got the soul of a poet.” 

“This will end in disaster!” Anton shouted after him. 


	3. Chapter 3

When Rory knocked on the gold plaque bearing his boss’s name, a curt voice answered him. “Unless it’s an emergency, don’t come in!” 

He hesitated, then pushed open the door and poked his head around. Glenna sat at her sleek glass desk, cradling a Starbucks Venti cup in her hands. Clad in gray slacks and a billowy silk blouse, she also wore a dark scowl. Besides Glenna’s beloved potted palms, which arched gracefully behind her desk, the office’s other occupant was Daphne Lee. Perched on the chair across from Glenna, she looked Rory up and down with a sneer.

“Did we have an appointment this morning, Mr. Acker?” Glenna asked crisply. “Otherwise, there’d better be a fire somewhere.” 

Daphne’s presence suggested that it was already too late to make a bid for ‘Happy Endings.’ Still, Rory didn’t see what he had to lose. “No appointment, but I have a question that’s time-sensitive.” 

“I think we can press pause for now, Glenna.” Daphne slipped her pen inside her notebook and stood. “I know how to take things from here.” 

She gave Rory a wide berth on her way out, as if afraid that their boss’s disapproval might taint her. Once the door closed behind her, Rory lowered himself into the vacant chair. 

“Well?” Glenna took off her red-framed glasses and polished them on her sleeve. “Are you here to tell me that our readers need to know about the latest Staten Island jamboree?” 

“I’m here about the Happy Endings column. Did you already assign it to Daphne?” 

His question turned Glenna’s tone from irritated to icy. “It’s none of your concern, but yes, I did. Daphne is our most senior staff writer. She’s the natural replacement for Carly.” 

“With all due respect—” The jittery excitement he’d felt back in his cubicle gripped him again. Rory pressed down on his leg to stop it from jiggling. “I’m the best choice to write about Nell Vaughan’s wedding.” 

He braced himself for laughter or scorn, but Glenna tapped her glasses against her chin and studied him in silence. Her eyes held a thoughtful glimmer. “And why are you so interested in Nell Vaughan?” she asked. 

Rory didn’t care about Nell at all. He’d Googled the bride on his way to Glenna’s office and had formed the impression of a blonde, blandly pretty socialite. But her wedding offered a window into the real story: her father’s campaign for mayor. “This Happy Endings column should be a political piece,” he began. “Ford Vaughan, Nell’s father, may well become the next mayor of New York. Even the engagement itself is tied to the fall election. The fiancé, Dash Wakeland, works on Ford Vaughan’s staff. He’s the Budget and Legislative Director.” 

“You’ve done your homework,” Glenna commented, her eyebrows raised. 

Thank God he’d also looked up Wakeland before knocking on Glenna’s door. “I know Daphne has seniority over me. But I can bring expertise to this column that no one else in the office will provide. The Vaughans have been part of the New York political scene for three generations—I can shed light on that history for our readers. I can explain what a Budget and Legislative Director actually does. When Nell and Dash attend campaign events, I can tag along and talk about the role they’re playing in the election.” He drew a breath. “I even have experience writing this kind of piece. Back in D.C, when I worked the local politics beat, I did a profile on the mayor’s son.” 

“I’m aware of your qualifications. I read your résumé when I hired you.” Glenna stood and walked over to the windowsill, where she retrieved a watering can. Rory thought she had lost interest in the conversation, but she continued speaking as she sprinkled the first potted palm. “Unfortunately, I also know what happened when your boss at the _Washington Review_ sent you on the road to cover the 2012 campaign.” 

Hope shriveled inside Rory. He’d been an idiot, thinking that if he talked convincingly enough Glenna would hand him the assignment without qualms. What could he say now? Only one person knew the full story: the therapist he had begun seeing after moving to New York. Rory remembered sitting in Dr. Latham’s office, haltingly laying out the details: how the frantic days and nights on the campaign trail blurred together. How twisting off the bottle cap and shaking the white pills into his palm became a comforting ritual. How a manila envelope, pushed towards him across a table in a lonely bar, led him to ruin. 

“It was one mistake.” His voice came out rusty, as though he’d gone hours without using it. “Nothing like that would happen now. I got clean.” He had heard other people say those words easily, with pride. But Rory only ever felt shame. 

He stared at the rug, listening to the water trickle from the can. At length the noise tapered off. “All right,” Glenna said. “You can do the column.” 

He looked up, scarcely able to believe his ears. “Really?” 

“Yes.Don’t gape at me like that—this is what you wanted, isn’t it? You can write Happy Endings with a political spin, and then tweet out the links to all your old D.C contacts. It’ll be a good way to remind them that you exist.” 

Rory rubbed his jaw, still stunned. Glenna didn’t make hasty, heel-turn decisions, and he found it hard to believe this offer came from the goodness of her heart. She had to have some underlying motive. “What about Daphne?” he asked. 

“I’ll tell her I changed her mind,” Glenna replied coolly. “She’s probably spread her good news all around the office by now, but some light professional humiliation will do wonders for that girl. The fact is, Rory, you _are_ more qualified for this story. _Better Living_ needs high-quality articles on its front page right now.” Her lips thinned as she set the watering can down on her desk. “I assume our financial situation is the current hot piece of gossip.” 

Rory shifted in his chair. “Anton mentioned something about it.” 

“Our advertisers keep telling me that I need to trim content from the site. ‘Absolutely not,’ I said to them. ‘I’ll start firing my columnists when pigs start wearing Louboutins.’ Million Dollar Troopers, Hot Boutiques, Happy Endings—I built _Better Living_ on those columns.”

She paused after the pun and threw him an expectant look. “Ha,” he managed.

“So I have to find a new angle for the site. That’s where you and _Happy Endings_ come in, Rory. The mayor’s race is just heating up now—by the fall it will be all that New Yorkers want to talk about. If you sprinkle politics into each wedding column, we’ll be able to give readers a behind-the-scenes look at the election that no one else can offer. Our page hits will go up in no time. Of course, we’ll get even more buzz if you can add some _juice_ to the column. Some scandal.” 

Alarm bells rang in his mind. He’d known there was a catch. “What do you mean?”

Glenna settled into her chair, leaning back like a queen lounging on a throne. “I’d like you to _get to know_ Ford Vaughan.” She stretched out the three words, as if to make sure he caught their meaning. “Comb over his public record, look into his private life—wherever you think you might find something. I’ve met the man, and he’s an arrogant son-of-a-bitch. He thinks he’s entitled to the mayor’s office. Knocking him down just as he reaches for the prize—now that would make for a great headline.” 

His disgust must have been stamped on his face. Rory cleared his throat and aimed for a blank expression. Even in the rough-and-tumble world of D.C, no boss had ever told him to ruin a candidate for profit. “Nell Vaughan is expecting me to write about her wedding,” he pointed out. “If I go after her dad in every column, she’ll refuse to continue with the profile.”

“That’s why you’ll save the dirt for your last article. It’ll be close to the election, anyway—a nice October surprise. Come on, Rory.” Glenna gave him a falsely cozy, we-know-each-other-so-well smile. “You’ve shown some ethical flexibility in the past.”

Sure, when he had been sleep-deprived and high as a kite. Rory’s instinct was to stand up and leave. Glenna could pass the Happy Endings hit piece off to Daphne. But damn it, he wanted  to cover the election. Before Glenna mentioned _juice_ and _scandal,_ he’d felt excited about work for the first time in years. Perhaps if he wrote an engaging column, balancing the sappy romantic stuff with political insight, he would draw enough readers to satisfy Glenna. Then she wouldn’t care whether his final article included “dirt.”

“Okay, I’ll do it.” He wouldn’t really be doing it, he told his conscience. He’d do the minimum of research on Ford Vaughan and then come back to Glenna empty-handed. 

Glenna’s smile widened. “I knew you were the best man for the job,” she purred. “Now you’d better get going. You and Liza are meeting Nell Vaughan at Le Perroquet in an hour.” Her gaze flicked over him. “If I were you, I’d scrounge up a tie.” 


	4. Chapter 4

Nell hated this restaurant. 

Le Perroquet’s smothering elegance made it hard to breathe. Gilded sconces gleamed on the walls; crystal vases, perched on the back of red velvet booths, overflowed with pink and orange orchids. Wide Venetian mirrors hung on opposing walls—Nell could never shake the sense of being on display at every moment. But this was the main attraction for much of Le Perroquet’s clientele, who flocked to the restaurant in order to be seen. In the mirror facing her, Nell saw two B-list celebrities nibbling on salads, while a Fortune 500 CEO read _The Financial Times_ over his coffee. 

Nell had suggested Le Perroquet for lunch in her email to Carly Reynolds, the Happy Endings columnist. Despite her dislike of the place, she hoped Le Perroquet’s lavish excess would send the right message to the reporter: _Keep_ _your distance._ She wanted to appear untouchable, intimidating. Her family had coerced her into allowing this profile on her wedding, but she would be damned if she let a stranger scratch beneath the surface of her life.

Her phone chimed and she flipped it over. The text was from Dash. _Meeting is running late. Get started without me._ No apology, just a terse statement and a command. Nell sank her teeth into her bottom lip. She dropped her phone into her purse without replying—she’d only end up writing a string of accusations. _You and my father cooked up this scheme, so don’t tell me to ‘start’ anything._

The maître d' led a couple past Nell’s table. The man had a linebacker’s build, broad-shouldered and burly; his wife was petite and pregnant, wearing a black cardigan over a polka-dotted maternity dress. Once at their table, he drew out a chair and she sat down, smiling. Her eye caught Nell’s. Nell looked away quickly. Pulling the napkin from under her fork, she clenched it tight in her lap. 

She’d thought she was moving past the grief. Just the other day she had walked by a playground and felt nothing—nothing at all. But now the sight of a happy, pregnant woman threatened to tear her apart. Nell squeezed her eyes shut. Her baby had been a girl. She wished she could rip the knowledge from her brain. Then she wouldn’t be able to picture so clearly what she had lost: a little girl with her fair hair and Dash’s dark eyes. 

She always imagined her daughter with Dash’s eyes. How many nights of her pregnancy had she spent with her hands pressed against her belly, willing the baby to be his? Dash thought she was cold and calculating— _“the best liar I know.”_ But all her lies rose from desperation. She’d clung to the hope that her child had been conceived in love and commitment, not in the worst mistake of her life. 

“Ms. Vaughan?”

Nell opened her eyes. Through a film of tears she saw a woman with brown corkscrew curls, gazing at her in obvious concern. Of course the _Better Living_ reporter would show up now. Nell had already handed her an angle for the first column: _the bride is a weepy weirdo._

“I think I’m allergic to these flowers.” Nell stood and held out her hand, resisting the urge to search her purse for Kleenex. “You must be Carly Reynolds.” 

“Um, no,” the woman said. “I’m Liza Crescenti—I’m a photographer for _Better Living.”_ Belatedly Nell noticed the camera case dangling from Liza’s shoulder along with her purse. “Someone should have called or emailed you, but I guess it all happened so last minute—Carly had to drop the assignment. Rory and I will be working together on the Happy Endings column.” 

“Who?” Even as Nell spoke, her gaze shifted to the man standing next to Liza. 

He had an odd face. His rounded nose and full cheeks suggested that at one point he’d had that boyish cuteness some men held onto. But deep lines bracketed his mouth and stretched from his eyes—his sandy hair was streaked with gray. Nell felt a spark of curiosity, but promptly doused it. Why should she want to know why this man looked so careworn? It was far better to focus on his awful outfit. His blazer hung loose, and his tie—pale blue, with a white crisscross pattern and orange dots—clashed with his plaid shirt. 

“Hi,” he said, shaking her hand—she must have left it outstretched. “Rory Acker. Nice to meet you.”

A _man_ was going to write the column about her, putting her private life under a microscope. Somehow this made everything worse. Nell pulled her hand from his grip. “I’ve been emailing back and forth with Carly Reynolds for the past week. From what I understand she writes all the Happy Ending columns. Why this last-minute change? It’s _very_ unprofessional.”

Her voice had climbed shrilly. Rory and Liza exchanged glances. Nell imagined the shared thought passing between them: _This lady’s a piece of work._ “Carly was in an accident this past weekend, Ms. Vaughan,” Rory said. “She has to take time off to recover, but I assure you Liza and I will put together a column that does justice to your wedding.” 

His patient tone made Nell feel both guilty and resentful. Before she could reply the maître d’ swooped down on them. “Is everything all right here, Miss Vaughan?” He smiled warmly at her but squinted at Rory and Liza. Nell could tell that he wasn’t convinced they “belonged”; if she said the word, he’d escort them out the door. 

But dismissing the _Better Living_ reporters would create more problems than it solved. When Dash arrived and found her alone, he’d be furious. He would then tell her father that she’d scrapped the interview, and Nell would have to face _his_ anger. Her father believed that the Happy Endings column and all the attending publicity was the key to his electoral success. Nell suspected he would simply call Glenna Kern at _Better Living,_ apologize for his daughter’s foolishness, and reschedule the interview.

“We’re fine here, Philippe,” she told the maître d’. “Perhaps we could have some sparkling water for the table?”

“Is your fiancé joining us for lunch, Ms. Vaughan?” Liza asked as the three of them sat down and Philippe bustled off. 

“Eventually. He’s in a meeting,” Nell said. She should have fashioned a different excuse, so that Dash didn’t come off as neglectful or work-obsessed. But she was too distracted to think of a lie. Now that she sat opposite Rory Acker she had a better view of his tie. Those small orange dots were in fact basketballs. 

“You’re wearing a Knicks tie,” she blurted. 

He glanced down and then back up with a self-deprecating smile. “Le Perroquet’s dress code is jacket and tie,” he said. “This blazer is a loan from a colleague, and then Liza and I were running short on time, so we had to duck into one of those gift and luggage shops in Times Square. This is the only kind of tie they sold.”

“I’m glad I snapped that picture of you in the subway,” Liza said, shaking her head. “I sent it to Anton—I bet he’s horrified.” 

“Anton is one of our coworkers,” Rory explained to Nell. “He’s a stickler for fashion. This is his blazer, actually. I’m under strict orders to, quote, ‘bring it back unscathed.’”

He seemed so _nice,_ so down-to-earth and unabashed about his absurd tie. But his charm had to be an act—a reporter’s ploy, designed to make her relax and unspool her thoughts. Nell refused to return his grin—she refused to like him. “You should avoid ordering the soup, then,” she said coldly. 

“So,” Rory drew a small notebook from the pocket of his blazer, “what I’m hoping to do today is get a general sense of you and Mr. Wakeland as a couple. How you met, how long you’ve been together, your shared vision for your wedding—that sort of thing.” 

“I don’t feel comfortable answering any questions before my fiancé arrives.” 

“Oh.” Rory frowned, pinching his notebook between thumb and forefinger. He and Liza exchanged another glance. Nell sensed the balance of power shifting in her favor. She smiled and straightened in her chair. 

“As we wait,” she said, “I’d love to hear more about both of you. Where you’re from, where you went to school, your _qualifications_ —that sort of thing.” 

“I used to work in D.C. I wrote for the _Washington Review.”_ Rory paused only for a moment, but Nell noticed the slight tightening of his features. The memory of his former job was obviously painful. Had he been fired? Whatever the story was, it had to involve a fall from grace. He had gone from working at a respected national newspaper to pinch-hitting for a society wedding column. “I got my journalism degree from Boston University—pretty close to home. My family’s from Somerville.”

“What a coincidence,” Nell said. “I went to school in Boston, too. Harvard.” 

Inwardly she cringed. She’d said the name in the hateful drawl that some of her Harvard classmates used. They believed their degree placed them on a higher plane of existence. Nell knew she was behaving horribly—like a caricature of a New York princess, the worst possible version of herself. But she couldn’t seem to stop. Maybe if she were actually happy, she could carry off this Happy Endings interview gracefully. The guilt and grief and anger that lived inside her kept spilling out. 

Strangely, her comment didn’t seem to offend Rory. He cocked his head, as though her snobbery was a cute Internet GIF. “How nice for you.” 

A waiter appeared and filled their glasses with San Pellegrino. Nell took a fizzy gulp, avoiding Rory’s gaze. 

“I’m a New Yorker, born and bred,” Liza said. Nell set down her glass, startled--she'd forgotten the photographer was there. “My parents still live in the Washington Heights apartment where they raised me and my sisters. I graduated from CUNY,then worked as a photo studio assistant for a few years before coming to _Better Living.”_ She paused, tucking a curl behind her ear as she glanced around the restaurant. “Of course I’m not from _this_ New York. This is like a different planet.” 

Nell thought she heard mockery in Liza’s tone. She had picked Le Perroquet because she wanted to impress and intimidate the people who would dissect her life. She’d only succeeded in making herself look ridiculous. “I don’t know what you mean,” she said, pulling her features into a sneer. Bitchiness was the best way to hide her embarrassment. “I believe there’s only one New York.”

The smile slid from Liza’s face. 

“Spoken like Ford Vaughan’s daughter,” Rory said. 

Nell’s head snapped towards him. “What?” 

“‘One New York’—that’s your father’s campaign slogan, right? He unveiled it when he announced his campaign last week.” 

She hadn’t meant to quote the damn slogan. The phrase must have seeped into her consciousness—she had heard it on loop since her father decided to run for mayor. Last week she had stood under the _One New York_ banner, trying not to breathe in the smell of the East River, and listened to her father talk about income inequality and affordable housing and all the things she knew he didn’t care about. As the cameras clicked and whirred, as her smile hurt her lips, Nell imagined herself stepping forward and shouting the truth: _Ford Vaughan will make a terrible mayor._

Now Rory Acker sat across from her with his little notebook and his gently curious expression, and Nell felt the same mad impulse. Lying all the time was so exhausting—what if she dropped the facade and let him see what lay behind? _My fiancé hates me. I hate myself. I’m ninety percent sure my father is a crook._

Of course she wasn’t going to say those things. She had ruined her life once in a moment of recklessness—she wasn’t about to blow up what remained of it in this interview. Instead, she would sit here and play her assigned roles: loving daughter, happy bride-to-be, campaign shill. Thankfully she’d had enough practice. 

“My father’s slogan is inspired, like the rest of his campaign.” Nell saw Dash coming towards them, wending his way through the other tables. She placed her napkin on the table and rose. “He’ll be the best mayor New York could ask for.”


	5. Chapter 5

This was not a couple who liked public displays of affection.

Rory watched as Dash Wakeland placed a dry kiss on Nell’s cheek, keeping his arms stiff at his side. Nell didn’t return the kiss; her hand brushed Dash’s gray-suited shoulder in a hesitant, fluttering touch. The pair stepped away from each other and turned to face Rory and Liza.

“I apologize for my lateness,” Wakeland said. He was several inches taller than Rory, lean and square-jawed, his curly brown hair tamed by mousse. His gaze dropped to Rory’s Knicks tie and lingered. “My last meeting had a longer agenda than I thought.”

“Not a problem.” As Wakeland shook hands with Liza, Rory took the opportunity to study Nell, who had sat down again. Her eyes fixed on her fiancé, she pressed the tip of her thumb to her front teeth.

Wakeland’s presence made her more tense. Interesting, Rory thought. Truth be told, everything about Nell Vaughan fascinated him. Her face was more arresting in person than in any of the pictures online. A small bump marred the line of her narrow nose—he wondered if she had broken it at some point. High cheekbones set off her wide eyes, which shifted from blue to green and back again. Most intriguing were the cracks in her ice princess mask. Guilt passed over her features after each one of her snobby comments. Rory had never met someone so transparent and yet so reserved. He suspected he could linger over a five course meal in this fancy place and never know the real Nell Vaughan.

“So, how far have you all gotten?” Wakeland smoothed his lapels as he sat down next to Nell. He’d dropped his polite smile. The grim set of his lips made Rory think that this was his game face, the one he brought to tense budget negotiations.

“We haven’t begun the interview yet,” Rory answered him. “Miss Vaughan thought it best to wait.”

“Why was that?” Dash kept his gaze trained forward as he sipped his water.

“You were running late, darling. I didn’t want to begin telling our story without you.”

Rory could tell that darling wasn’t a word Nell used often. She drew out the endearment too long, holding a brittle smile. A muscle leapt in Dash’s jaw.

Weird vibes all around. Liza nudged Rory’s ankle under the table; when he turned to her she rolled her eyes at the ceiling. He remembered their conversation on the way uptown.

_“Don’t freak out if the couple snipes at each other,” she told him as they held on to the metal bar above their heads, swaying with the motion of the subway car._

_“I thought all Happy Endings couples were nauseatingly happy,” he replied. “That’s how Carly makes it seem in her column.”_

_“Trust me, she leaves a lot on the cutting room floor. It makes sense, if you think about what kind of people hire a magazine to profile their engagement. These are mega-rich power players, and they’re caught up in wedding planning stress. I always make a mental bingo card before a Happy Endings assignment: you’re gonna have lots of shouting, a few teary meltdowns, and a glass of champagne tossed in someone’s face.”_

So maybe this was normal. He should just tick off “interview where the couple seems to hate each other” on the card in his head. Rory opened his notebook. Before leaving the _Better Living_ office, he had written two lists of questions. One was labeled “the couple”, the other “the campaign.” He’d start with the first list, and try to sprinkle in as much from the second as possible. “I know Miss Vaughan here is a New York native. Are you also from the city originally, Mr. Wakeland?”

“Please, call us Nell and Dash,” Dash said with an impatient wave of his hand. Nell’s lips tightened with annoyance. “I’m from Philadelphia originally, but I moved here when I was kid. My aunt and uncle lived in Staten Island, and they legally adopted me.”

“Had your parents passed away?”

“I have to stop you there.” Nell glared at Rory as she covered Dash’s hand with hers. “My fiancé’s childhood has nothing to with the piece you’re writing.”

“I don’t mind talking about it,” Dash said.

“But Dash, you don’t have to—”

He shook off her touch. “I have nothing to be ashamed of.”

Nell recoiled. She dropped her gaze to the tablecloth, shrinking into her chair.

“I never knew my dad.” Dash’s tone was detached, but his chin jutted at a defiant, _I dare you to react_ angle. “My mom drank, among other vices. Because she went from job to job, we could never count on her paychecks. I grew up on food stamps. That’s why I chose my line of work, in fact—I want to make sure there’s enough money in the budget for poor kids to eat. When I was ten, the state declared my mother an unfit parent. She and my uncle were estranged, but he still took me in.”

“Mr. Vaughan, your boss and future father-in-law, devotes a section of his campaign website to solutions for low-income families,” Rory said. “But he hasn’t commented on Mayor Jenik’s plan to expand the New York City Child Care Tax Credit, not has he offered a counter-proposal. Does the campaign plan to do so?’

It wasn’t the smoothest segue to politics. Liza shot him a swift, _what are you doing_ look. Nell, her head still bowed, didn’t react, but Dash’s expression grew shuttered. “Obviously I can’t comment on future campaign policy proposals,” he said coolly.

That eliminated about half the questions on Rory’s “campaign” list. Still, he now had the perfect hook for the Happy Endings column. He could cast Dash as the rags-to-riches hero, overcoming his troubled past and dedicating himself to public service. Add Nell, and it would be a love story with all the familiar, beloved tropes: the princess and the pauper, the rich girl and the boy from the wrong side of the tracks. _Better Living’s_ readers would lap it up. Rory would draw enough page hits to satisfy Glenna; he could ignore her distasteful demand that he find dirt on Ford Vaughan.

But when Rory looked at Nell’s slumped shoulders, the red stains on her cheeks, he didn’t want to write a story with Dash as the hero. He wanted to punch the other man in the face. He dragged his attention to his list of “couple” questions, choosing the blandest one. “How did you two meet?”

Before either Nell or Dash could respond a waiter arrived at their table, accompanied by Philippe the maître d’. “Monsieur Wakeland,” Philippe said as he pumped Dash’s arm. “I’m sorry I didn't say hello when you arrived—I was on the phone. Such a pleasure to see you again, sir.”

“The pleasure is ours. I’m always telling people that Le Perroquet is the best lunch spot in the city.” Dash handed his menu to the waiter, who took it with fumbling fingers. “I’ll have the grilled sole, please.”

The waiter circled the table, taking the rest of their orders. Philippe continued to fawn over Nell and Dash while ignoring Rory and Liza. After ordering the roasted chicken, Liza muttered to Rory from the corner of her mouth. “Are you having fun yet?”

“It isn’t what I expected.” Rory watched Nell yawn into her napkin as Philippe droned on.

At last Philippe bowed and herded off the waiter. Dash turned to Rory as though there had been no interruption. “Nell and I met at the Fessenden School,” he said. “I went there on scholarship in ninth grade.”

Rory jotted down “Fessenden” in his notes. He’d heard the name before—it was one of those fancy, 40k tuition schools that churned out the future hedge fund managers of America. “So you started dating in high school.”

“That’s just when we met. Bruce, Nell’s brother, was in my grade. We played soccer together and got to be good friends. Nell was just Bruce’s pesky little sister who’d spy on us when I went over the Vaughans’ apartment to hang out.”

“I had a total crush on Dash.” Nell reached for Dash’s arm but then changed course, her hand landing on the salt shaker instead. She moved it to the other side of the pepper. “I thought he was so handsome and smart, but what dazzled me was that he never said anything. The strong, silent type.” She lifted the vase in the center of table, bringing it into alignment with the two shakers. “I went to all of Bruce’s soccer games, even though he played terribly. In school assemblies, I tried to find a seat where I could look at Dash. I even sent him a Candy-Gram—little notes you could send with chocolate on Valentine’s Day. Of course I didn’t sign it.”

“I don’t remember that,” Dash drawled. “I know I got other Candy-grams, from girls who signed their names.”

“Maybe you can track one of them down and marry her instead.”

A few seconds slipped past before Dash threw back his head and laughed. He looped his arm around Nell’s shoulders and pulled her close. “I think we should keep that little joke out of the column,” he said, looking at Rory. None of his mirth was in his eyes.

“I’ll consider it off-the-record,” Rory said.

“A couple’s in-joke.” Nell shrugged off Dash’s arm. Her cheeks were flushed, her blue-green eyes shining. “Mr. Acker understands.”

“It’s Rory.” He paused. “And I don’t have a girlfriend.”

He didn’t know why he tacked on the last part. It was weird thing to say—then again, the whole situation was weird. The lunch had morphed into a matinée of _Who’s Afraid of Virginia Woolf?_ All the tension must be messing with his head.

Nell gazed at him with her lips parted, as though he’d surprised her. He hadn’t appreciated until this moment how dizzyingly lovely she was.

Liza gave a purposeful cough. She frowned at Rory, who realized how long he must have been sitting in silence, gaping at the bride-to-be. He straightened and clicked his pen against the table. “So when did you two get together?”

“In college.” Dash looked bored but not angry, which thankfully meant he hadn’t noticed Rory’s Nell-induced trance. “We both went to Harvard.”

“Nell mentioned that earlier,” Rory said, risking a glance at her. She didn’t meet his eyes; her attention was on aligning her salad fork with her plate.

“Bruce and I lost touch after heading to college, but sophomore fall I got a Facebook message from him out of the blue, telling me that his little sister was starting at Harvard. He wanted me to take her to coffee, generally keep an eye on her.” Dash drummed his fingers on the table. “I had Nell’s number in my phone for a year but never got around to calling her. But then we ended up in the same class.”

“Ancient Systems of Political Thought.” Nell looked up from her silverware, her smile strained. “The class was an elective in the PoliSci department, where Dash was majoring. I picked it out to satisfy my classical civilizations requirement.”

“You majored in Classics?” Rory asked.

“Ye-es.” From Nell’s tone, she might as well have been owning up to a past of competitive hula-hooping. “A joint concentration in Classics and Ancient History. I wanted to be an archaeologist.”

This was the most interesting revelation of the last half hour. “Did you work on any digs?”

His curiosity seemed to both fluster and annoy her. “Several, over the summers.” She fiddled with her fork again. “My primary focus was epigraphy—the study of ancient inscriptions.”

“And?”

Her eyes flashed at him. “I realized how impractical it was to build a career on dead languages. After college, I interned at my father’s district office. Now I’m a development associate at New York-Presbyterian.”

The waiter arrived with their food. “Nell makes it sound like she came to her senses on her own,” Dash said as he cut into his sole. “But it took a lot of work to talk her out of those grad school applications. The ‘publish or perish’ life clearly wasn’t for her. She’d have slaved away at some podunk university in the Midwest, grasping at tenure. And can you imagine her on her knees digging through the dirt?”

Nell’s cheek twitched as though stung. Any good-will Rory still had towards Dash evaporated. As he stared down at his notebook, at the lists he had scribbled out before knowing what he was in for, he tried to quell the anger inside him. So Nell Vaughan was marrying a jackass who insulted her and undercut her dreams. It was a foolish choice she’d regret, but it in no way affected him.

He flipped to a new page in his notebook. “We should move on to talking about the wedding itself. I believe you’ve set the date for January—”

“Wait,” Liza interrupted. She blushed when all eyes turned to her, but pressed on. “I feel like there’s more to the college story. Dash, you said that you only saw Nell as your friend’s little sister. What changed when you met her again? I’m not the one writing the column,” her gaze darted towards Rory, “but I’ve worked on enough Happy Endings pieces to know that the _beginning_ is important—the moment you fell in love.”

“At nineteen I had slightly better social skills than in middle school.” Nell stabbed a shrimp in her salad. “I knew how not to embarrass myself in front of Dash. Also, I was rather curvier and less pimply. Our class met at nine a.m, which meant that Dash often overslept—which made me an invaluable source of notes when midterms rolled around.”

“That wasn’t—” Dash stopped, shaking his head.

“Yes, Dash?” Liza shifted in her chair to face him. She’d taken command of the interview, which at this point was just fine with Rory.

“I’d gone my whole life without feeling at home. My aunt and uncle adopted me, but we never formed a real family. I was always an addition, something tacked on afterwards. At Fessenden, at Harvard, people liked me and befriended me, invited me to their clubs and country homes, but they never let me forget that I wasn’t one of them.” Dash drew a sharp breath. For the first time his face reflected raw, honest feeling. “But Nell was different. She accepted and loved every part of me unswervingly. I pictured a whole life spent being loved like that, by a woman like her, and I thought, ‘How I did get so goddamn lucky?’ She became my home.”

“Oh, Dash.” Nell looked tormented but happy, as though his speech had ripped and mended her all at once. She gripped Dash’s hand, and this time he didn’t pull away.

Watching them, Rory knew he was in the presence of something he didn’t yet understand.


	6. Chapter 6

Their nervous waiter deposited the check by Dash’s elbow and scuttled off. Nell rolled her shoulders, trying to release some tension. Over the main course and dessert, Rory had interrogated her and Dash about their wedding plans. His thorough questioning reminded Nell how much _work_ it was to get married. When she and Dash first became engaged, she had been full of energy and purpose. She had chosen her bridesmaids, scouted venues, stuffed a binder with checklists and magazine cut-outs. 

And then she discovered she was pregnant. 

Everything that happened had put her months behind. That binder was buried somewhere in her bedside drawer. When was the last time she had emailed her bridesmaids with an update? In the day-to-day struggle of keeping her relationship with Dash in tact, she sometimes forgot about the wedding altogether. 

Maybe from now on it wouldn’t be such a struggle. She watched Dash add the tip to the check and scribble his name. One passionate speech about why he fell in love with her didn’t erase the past, couldn’t fix all their problems, but for the first time in months she felt hopeful. 

As Dash pocketed his wallet, he shot her an expectant look. “Don’t you have something for Rory and Liza?”

What was he talking—oh. “Yes.” Nell pulled a piece of paper from her purse. She unfolded it and winced. Her mother had typed the list in Comic Sans. “This is the schedule of events that we’d like you to attend,” she said, handing the sheet to Rory. “It goes all the way up to the rehearsal dinner.” 

Rory studied the list with a frown. 

“My mother chose the font,” Nell said defensively. 

“There are a lot of parties on here.” 

Had he expected an invitation to her book club? “My parents are eager to celebrate our engagement,” Nell said tightly. “But it’s not just social gatherings—as you can see, you’ll accompany me to the florist and caterer, as well as the dress-fitting.” Which meant many hours spent alone with Rory Acker, since she doubted Dash would want to taste cakes or look at flowers. Nell’s skin prickled. Rory was calm, easy-going, _watchful—_ a nightmare in rumpled plaid. Throughout lunch she’d sensed him cataloguing her every frown and sigh, each one of her barbed comments. He must have made up his mind about her, jotted down his conclusion in his little notebook. 

She would read his verdict soon, along with a thousand strangers on the Internet.

Rory shifted in his chair, laying the schedule aside. “I was hoping to shadow you both at campaign events.”

Nell laughed—it was rude, but the idea was so absurd. “Absolutely not.” 

She expected Dash to have a similar reaction, but her fiancé’s expression was shrewd as he looked at Rory. “Usually _Better Living_ steers clear of politics,” he said. 

Rory shrugged. “We’re a New York-based magazine, and our readers are going to be more and more interested in the race between Mr. Vaughan and Mayor Jenik as we move closer to November. I’m thinking of alternating topics within my column. One week I’d write about your wedding, and the next I’d focus on the election.” 

Nell saw Liza wrinkle her nose. Maybe it wasn’t just her private misgivings that made this sound like a terrible concept. 

Yet Dash still wore a considering look. “I would have to consult with Ford, of course, to see whether he’d be comfortable granting you more access.”

“I don’t think we need to talk to Dad to know he’d be opposed to this idea,” Nell said. She stressed the _we,_ so that Rory wouldn't think that Dash had the only direct line to her father.

“ _I_ think—” Liza broke off. She stood and fiddled with her camera case, as though waiting for courage to catch up with her words. “I think the two of you should discuss this in private,” she said finally. “Rory and I can step outside. Since it’s such a nice day, I’d love to get some exterior shots of you two before you leave. We can figure out what would make the best backdrop nearby.” 

Rory looked as though he wanted to stay and press his case, but he allowed Liza to steer him towards the exit. 

“When my father told us we had to do this—” the hideous evening on her parents’ patio bloomed in Nell’s mind—“I _know_ he wasn’t thinking that we would let a reporter tag along with us to meet and greets.” 

“And I’ll say again,” Dash tilted his head in the direction that Rory and Liza had left, “we’re not dealing with a crack political reporting team. Acker is writing a puff piece on us. If he wants to add in little snapshots of the campaign, it’ll just bring more attention to your father, which was the goal in the first place. Publicity can only help us.” 

“Rory Acker may be writing a puff piece, but he still asks a lot of questions.” He _noticed_ things, too. Nell traced a pattern on the tablecloth. “Having him around is a risk, especially if…if there are things about the campaign you don’t want found out.”

She kept her head down, her finger still drawing figure-eights. When she looked up, Dash’s brow was knitted. “I don’t know what you mean.” 

Here she was again, at the line she couldn’t cross. Nell had been at this brink so many times, all her suspicions primed on her lips. Each time, at the crucial moment, words failed her. If she was wrong about her father, she was crazy, paranoid—sharper than a serpent’s tooth. If she was right…she had a routine daydream about a federal agent questioning her in a stark, fluorescent-tinted room. _“Let’s establish the timeline, Miss Vaughan.”_ He had always been faceless in Nell’s imagination, but now he looked a lot like Rory. _“You knew for years what your father was doing, where the money was coming from, and you did nothing.”_ The moment when she could have been a heroine was years past. Now she was culpable, complicit. 

And so was Dash. More so than she, possibly. That was the real reason why Nell couldn’t accuse her father. She would be accusing Dash too, of being a stooge or a knowing participant. Her chest squeezed, as though her heart was twisting away from the thought.

“That answer you gave in the interview.” She swallowed. “About how you used to feel in college…about me being your home. Was it true, or was it just a good soundbite?”

“It’s not how I _used_ to feel, Nell.” Dash’s voice lacked its familiar, bitter edge. He sounded—and looked—tired. “I’m not the one whose love was ever in question.” 

It was insane that he was right. For so long the story of her and Dash had been about her pining, loving him from a distance—wanting him more than he wanted her. When she cheated, she had changed the story, flipped the narrative on its head. Now he was constant and she was fickle. 

“I’m sorry.” He had to be sick of her apologies. But she never stopped hoping that the right words would bring him back to her. Nell stared at the nearest vase of gaudy orchids, speaking past the lump in her throat. “I would do anything to make things right between us again.”

Dash scooted his chair close to hers and took her hand. Nell shut her eyes and trembled, but then opened them and kept looking at the orchids, not daring to jinx the moment. They sat like that for a long time. 


End file.
